I’m not prone to people watching, I swear. But the sun’s caught itself on two shiny jewels in the window across from me. And now I’m all caught up in how they dazzle each other—not in flashes but sparkles that sprinkle the wall with fairies and starlight. They gather up the sparkles to season their dinner, and I’m straining to hear the sizzles sing in the pan.

Behind closed doors, I’m used to the screams of a banshee. To books and cat litter flung across the floor, my oak guitar flying at the TV screen.

But behind this door—they’re slicing plantains and wrapping empanadas in pie crust and perfecting the secret recipe for love that the rest of us froth at the mouth for. He does that thing where he says, “Look over there!” and then surprises her with a kiss when her head turns back. I roll my eyes, but it feels like he invented it.

Their plates are loaded like my questions. She eats using a fork and a spoon and finishes every last spoonful of rice, even though she’d told him she wouldn’t. She frowns at the way her belly has swollen until he kisses it and she kisses his back.

They huddle on the couch, a tiny team of two, scheming over what comes next. He reads her poems and holds her close. She listens as he talks fantasy baseball strategy. I feel confident she doesn’t understand a word until she tells him they can’t bench Byron Buxton again.

Now they’re watching Star Wars shows. She’s ranting about clones’ rights and how the Republic and Separatists are cut from the same cloth. He reminds her the show was literally written that way, and the cloth is Emperor Palpatine’s robes. They discuss C-3PO and R2D2 Halloween costumes—the one pair, I learn, that transcends the galaxy’s timelines.

Their conversations are nearly unintelligible for a while, though they seem to understand each other just fine. The only thing I can make out is the litter of sweet nothings and full “I love yous.” He stands up simply to dance, I realize, explaining she’s the only one to ever see him do it (good thing his pride is protected from my gaze at the window). She nods like she already knows, he’s said it before, and she’ll be happy to hear him say it a million more times.

He pulls her up and envelopes her in his chest, like a love letter he’ll never have to send because it’s written on his heart. I watch her hands travel over his back and his through her hair, and suddenly I feel unbearably naked.

I feel vulnerable to the ghosts of hands that reached and clawed and groped on open dance floors and behind closed doors. I feel hot, stinking breath that smells of tar in the lungs. I feel the spray of spit as skeletons shout down at me, looming over me as I hug my knees. I cower at the window, nausea rising from my swollen belly, heart aching for that love letter.

And then I feel a soft warmth at the small of my back. He pulls me into his chest, hands moving to my stomach and easing the pain. There’s a kiss at the top of my head, his nose in my hair. I’m released from the past and I remember him.

I remember this isn’t a looking glass but the shiny glass of my own windowpane, reflecting my life back at me. These are the walls that we pay for, surrounding the shaggy, checkered rug he picked from the 15 options I gave him. These are our blankets, twisted, rarely made, always warm against the blowing AC. These are our empty plates that he’ll carry away after I’ve been held for long enough. These are our fantasy teams, our Lego 3PO and R2, our conversations that no one could understand but anyone could feel, like sweet honey on a sore throat.

These are his promises in my ear. These are his arms around my waist, my lips along his neck, and our two-step across the kitchen floor.